


Prophecy Fulfilled

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes returns from a meeting with his brother in a foul mood, and Watson struggles to uncover why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prophecy Fulfilled

The front door opened and closed with a vicious thud. The sound of footsteps on the stairs was heavy, harsh. In a man so close to cat-like and capable of almost silent motion as Sherlock Holmes, I knew such overtly loud steps were the purposeful heralds of a foul mood—meant to drive off any who might seek to further irritate with inane chatter or innocent inquiry. Permit me to commend myself with a true mark of bravery, then, for I dared to call out the following question:

“How was dining with your brother?”

“Terrible, Watson! Just terrible!” Holmes’s voice reverberated down the hall and into the sitting room with the volume loud enough to reach the very back seats in a crowded theater. It made the ears ring.

The implementation of the actor’s tone was meant to command attention and command it instantly. There would be no convincing him to wait two minutes for the decisive and dramatic reveal contained within the yellow pages of my novel to make themselves known. Reluctantly, I shut my book and turned my attentions to my companion, who was just now storming through the door from the hall. Holmes was aggressively discarding outerwear as he crossed the sitting room, leaving behind a small trail of personal affects before he collapsed into his armchair, tugging frantically at his tie. The evening had called for him to wear his new dress coat, which I thought suited him too well to be fit for public consumption. Now, the addition of a dislodged tie and his Devil-may-care drape across his armchair compounded the effect, and I would have very much liked to point this out, had I not suspected Holmes to be in no mood. He practically fumed with irritation.

“Well?” I prodded when the tension in the room had welled to a head.

“Well what?” retorted Holmes, laying his hand over his eyes.

“Well, would you care to elaborate as to what made it so terrible? Or would you prefer to continue silently polluting the sitting room with your ire?”

“The latter,” he answered grimly, but just as I reached for my book he added: “Though, I suppose there may be some cathartic relief to be derived from the former, if you will so permit me.”

“I am all ears.” I gazed wistfully at my discarded novel before settling forward in my chair, elbows on knees, the picture of rapt attention.

Holmes drew in a long breath, exhaling through his teeth in a hiss as he straightened himself. “As you may know, my brother dines exclusively at four places: his own home, the Diogenes, and two relatively renowned restaurants, both situated en route between the former and the latter. All of which, I must admit, provide excellent fare, though this comes as little surprise considering my brother’s extensive, shall we say, experience in the gastronomical field.” Here, he paused to make a gesture indicating, rather rudely, his brother’s girth. 

“This evening, my dear Watson, I was forced to dine at one restaurant, while he loudly proclaimed his immense dissatisfaction with the new head chef of the other, such to the point that he is now, lamentably, down to a mere three places where he may happily gorge himself. As I said: Terrible.”

Holmes halted once more, this time to remove his collar, which had rubbed a red line around his neck. I saw this as my cue to make to make a noncommittal, consolatory noise. Here, I fear, is rather where we diverged on the definition of ‘terrible’. Mycroft Holmes’s choice of conversation topics is not, in my mind, terrible, so much as they are often dreadfully, sleep-inducing-ly dull. For the younger Holmes, ‘dull’ and ‘terrible’ are one and the same. While I can tolerate, and to an extent sympathize with, his abhorrence of boredom, I confess his palpable dislike of his brother always grates on my nerves. Perhaps it is out of jealousy; I would give most anything to have my own brother alive again to irritate me. At any rate, I did not hide the minor annoyance in my tone when I filled the pause in his monologue with a trite ‘how awful for you,’ hoping to silence him on this subject.

If my comment had any effect on him, he did not show it. His attentions turned to the table, where the evidence of my evening meal still lingered. “I don’t suppose you have anything left to eat on that supper tray?”

“Haven’t you just dined?”

“Only ten cigarettes and two brandies, none of which were strong enough to suit my needs. How is one supposed to eat while being dressed down, more or less publicly, by one’s own flesh and blood.”

“Dressed down?” asked I, falling exactly into his trap.

“Oh, never mind, you would prefer not to hear this, I know.” Holmes gave me a dismissive wave of the hand, knowing very well he had hooked me. He made his way to inspect my leftovers. “How excellent for me that you never finish your vegetables.”

“Holmes,” I watched as he tucked in heartily to whatever half-eaten elements of my supper still lingered on the plate; all told, it amounted to no more than half a piece of bread, two steamed carrots, and Mrs. Hudson’s new pea and mushroom curry, which was not exactly to my liking. “Unless you have secretly begun a culinary career at your brother’s formerly second favorite restaurant, I fail to see how you received a dressing down.”

“Formerly first favorite,” he corrected in a mumble, mouth half-full, “hence his outrage.”

“Regardless, my point still stands.”

He waited until he had polished off everything remaining of my supper, including the last, lingering drops of wine in my glass, before he continued. “No, the topics are unrelated. However, his complaints concerning his newly-restricting dining options propelled him rather smoothly into an amalgamated list of all of my worst traits and habits, including, but not limited to, my choice of profession and the way I walk, thoughtfully enumerated for me with all the fraternal care imaginable.”

His intense frustration dissolved a bit at the edges, crumbling into something more vulnerable. No man likes to hear his faults made plain, and against a creature so proud and vain as my Holmes, such attacks are especially potent. When delivered by perhaps the only man whose capacity for observation outstrips his own, a cruel remark may pierce Holmes’s otherwise thick skin and cut him to the quick.

“That is rather the specialty of siblings world-wide,” I assured him. “And for whatever it is worth, I will continue to think you are marvelous, no matter what Mycroft has to say about you.”

At that, his face seemed to undergo a kaleidoscope of adjustments. There was a flash of affection, then a dip of the brows that, in a more forthright man may have constituted a concerned frown. Then, a muddling of emotions I was not clever enough to decipher. Whatever else his face tried to impart on me, it settled at last on a calm, almost contented expression. The dark clouds of earlier began to fade, and I was well on my way to congratulating myself for a job well-done.

“You may return to your novel now, if you like. I gather from your reluctance to set it aside that something very exciting is about to unfold.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

He was rarely so easily mollified. I ought to have been suspicious of his sudden change of tone, but he is a mercurial fellow, and I will admit I was fairly chomping at the bit to resume my reading. And so I dove eagerly back into my book, while Holmes busied himself at the mantel with filling his pipe. It did not take me long to finish the chapter, yet when I did, I discovered Holmes had made the most attractive tableau of himself; he leaned against the mantel, pipe in hand, and a few more shirt buttons undone. He gazed into the fireplace, pipe stem tapping against his teeth, the orange light of the low-burning fire highlighting all his finest features from temple to clavicle. No doubt sensing my eyes upon him, he turned to regard me in kind, smoke puffing from his nostrils in two great plumes. Lust stirred my blood as I pictured taking him just there, in front of the fire, dress coat as our blanket. I would wipe his melancholy air away with kisses, bury Mycroft’s insults under a mountain of sighs…

“Was it as riveting as you’d hoped?” His voice was low and mesmerizing; it took me a moment to remember myself.

“Oh yes.” I turned the novel over in my hands before abandoning it to the side table for the evening. “The mysterious woman, who always spurned our hero’s advances, has revealed her terrible secret: that she is, in fact, his estranged half-sister.”

“More siblings.” Holmes hummed ruefully. “I fail to grasp how you can read such sensationalist drivel.”

“And yet, you are always asking after my reading,” I retorted, rising to join him by the mantel. “Don’t forget last week when I caught you reading that American Western you said was ‘so trite’.”

There is a particular dip of the head and tilt of the brow that Holmes makes when he is embarrassed, and it greeted me just then. No man has looked more handsome in embarrassment than Sherlock Holmes caught devouring one of my so-called ‘unintelligent fictions’ in the middle of the night, like a naughty schoolboy. I teased him about it for months.

“I must say,” I added, touching the lapel of his coat admiringly, “these new tails really do look quite excellent on you. Even, or perhaps especially, in your current state.”

“You are too generous, Watson.” A hint of a smile tugged at the edge of his lips, and I rejoiced at my good fortune. The hard-earned smiles are the most rewarding. “I am afraid it was a waste; no one of consequence saw me, save my brother, who feels it makes me look rather like a pheasant.”

I slipped my hands about his middle, my fingers luxuriating in the silk of his waistcoat. “If you are a pheasant, you’re one I should be very sorry to shoot.”

The hinted-at smile returned in full as he shook his head at me. “Tut, tut, old boy. Surely some comment about stuffing and mounting would have been better.”

“Oh, I disagree—tawdry lines are hardly fit for such a well-dressed gentleman.”

He scoffed. “You obviously don’t know the right gentlemen.”

“Perhaps you’ll introduce me.”

“Perhaps I prefer to keep you to myself.”

Here, he discarded his pipe, as clear a signal as a lady’s dropped handkerchief. My arms circled his slim waist, drawing us closer. He remained still, not reluctant, but unyielding. Grey eyes coursed over my face, considering me, seeking some truth in my features he did not trust to ask. Whatever he found, he leaned forward to kiss me, chastely at first, then with growing hunger. A hand slid along my shoulder to grip the back of my neck. His thigh pressed between my own. My hips ground obediently against his leg, and Holmes smirked to discover the effect his appearance had had on me: my cockstand was half-hard and swelling at his attentions.

“My dear, I had no idea discussions about my brother had such a profound affect on you.”

I snorted.

“Hardly,” I punctuated my words with kisses along his neck, “I thought, perhaps, you might enjoy a distraction. Rather than brooding. Though you’re an excellent brooder.”

“Professional-quality brooder?”

“Nearly. Sophisticated amateur.”

“John,” he purred, “It was so kind of you to help me dress this evening. May I trouble you to undo all your hard work?”

My fingers were on his buttons before he had even finished his sentence. Ever since I had seen him dressed—the trim cut of his new coat, the crisp pull of the collar against his ivory throat, the whole of him immaculate and unearthly—I had been waiting to muss and ravage him. I told him as much as I ran my hand over a newly-exposed expanse of his chest.

“Wouldn’t you rather return to your thrilling, little novel?” he teased, one finger idly tracing the outline of my prick through my trousers. “Perhaps some couple is about to discover they’re fourth cousins.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do, please.”

We all but flew across the flat, stumbling our way into his bedroom. My dressing gown and his tail coat coiled together on his floor as the rest of our clothing was tossed here and there. He soon stretched naked against the bedclothes, arms beckoning me to join him, which I did gladly. We were both of us hasty and eager, wetting each other’s faces and necks with kisses, and our hands and stomachs with drippings of excitement. Holmes pressed the jar of lubricant into my hand and raised his hips expectantly, his erection bobbing heavily against his stomach.

I have never met a creature who lusts for penetration as Holmes does. Most of the men, and a fair number of women, I have known looked upon it as an obligation, a politeness to me; whether by temperament or my own failings, no one has ever said. Yet, Holmes yearns to have me inside him, with a wantonness that sets fire to my blood. As I slid into him, his back arched, his hands frantically scrambling to grip the sheets. His head thrown back, his neck bared, he looked for all the world like St. Sebastian, pierced, his face contorted in ecstatic agony.

“Closer,” urged he, arms coiling about me.

I stretched over him, our chests meeting, his prick caught between our bellies. He moved his hips in congress with my own, each thrust driving me deeper and working himself firmly between us. When weight of our bodies was no longer enough, Holmes guided my hand to his cock, commanding me silently as to the right speed and force. He clung desperately to me, his fingers digging into my flesh like Bernini’s Pluto on the thigh of Proserpina. I have said already we were hasty and eager that night; I will not flatter myself to pretend otherwise. We both came within minutes, Holmes spilling into my hand with a half-aborted moan, while I followed close behind, spurting into him hotly. We hardly bothered to clean ourselves up before once more collapsing against the mattress.

As I lay there recovering my breath, I thought of his beautiful, debaucherous abandon, and of my luck to indulge it so. I turned my head to look at him, hoping to catch the last few glimpses of his alluring post-orgasmic smile. Instead, I found only his profile in a somber, stoney expression. His eyes were transfixed to the ceiling, his jaw set—in short, he did not look like a man who had just had a satisfying sexual encounter. Or, at least, not one who was still turning over, as I was, the best moments in his mind’s eye.

“Holmes?”

“Hm?” he inquired, without looking at me. He drew in a sharp breath that hissed, just at the end, as if it were tempted to become a sniffle.

“Still thinking about something he said to you?”

“I am.”

“Won’t you tell me about it? Then I would be better equipped to dispel your doubts.”

He glanced at me, briefly, from the corner of his eyes, his head remaining motionless. “You won’t care to hear it.”

“Holmes,” I started, propping myself up on an elbow, “While I am the first to celebrate your talents, I am not so naive as to believe you beyond reproach. Besides that, I _live_ with you and all your worst habits. Daily. I really doubt there’s anything ill your brother can say of you that hasn’t crossed my mind already and that I haven’t decided is trivial in comparison to… well, to the rest of you.”

A smile spread briefly across his lips and faded. His eyes shut firmly and he drew in another deep, sorrowful breath. I had seen him with a wounded pride before, I had even, through a bit of my own folly, seen him offended before, but I had not seen him anywhere so near genuine hurt as I did in this moment. (It was not, I regret to say, the last time—this was before my marriage and all the other anguishes we caused each other during and since.) As with all his expressions, it was not overt, but I do not think one needed to be as well acquainted with him as I am to recognize the pained look of a man who is struggling to maintain his composure. The sight left me breathless with empathy.

“John—“ his face twitched at the pronouncement of my name and I felt for an instant his resolve might crack and a dark, unknowable list of torments might pour from his perfect lips. “Would you please put out the lamp?”

I obeyed reluctantly. We did not often speak freely of our fears and insecurities, and I felt I had just lost an important opportunity. However, as I settled back against the pillows, I heard Holmes part his lips to speak and I realized the command had not been a dismissal, rather, he sought the safe envelopment of darkness to continue.

“It is my brother’s opinion,” he began in the conspiratorial whisper of a dormitory confession, “that you and I are deluding ourselves. That your affection for me is fleeting, and will one day pass, and that I am merely addicted to the receipt of your hero-worship. The only outcome of which, he believes, is that my idiosyncrasies will slowly irritate you into leaving me, at which point, given my ‘tendency to exaggerate’, as he puts it, I am liable to do something foolish.”

I was stunned. The silence hung heavily about us. In the darkness, my hand sought his. I squeezed it, while I fumbled for a reply.

“He’s an idiot,” I managed at last. Not my most eloquent moment. Holmes made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob and pulled me into an embrace. I nuzzled against his jaw, admiring the faint prick of his day’s-end stubble. “Holmes—Sherlock, I cherish you more than anything. And, I know it isn’t every sycophant who gets to share your bed. I may not be a Holmes, but I say, if your brother can’t see how we feel about one another, then he’s a bloody fool. And you can tell him I said so.”

For a long time he was quiet. His fingers danced idly up my arm, through my hair, down my spine, lulling me towards a sleepy haze in spite of the anger that boiled in me. Anger at Mycroft for his senseless words, for his false opinion. I cannot recall if we spoke any more on the subject, I remember only drifting to sleep as a string of words danced across my lips: I love you, I love you, I love you…

How could we have known then Mycroft’s predictions would prove, in essence, true? It was in September of that year that I first met Mary. In the intervening months, Holmes’s habit with his moroccan case rose to alarming frequency and he became increasingly irritable; that summer saw the dissolution of our lovemaking. We spoke less and less. I invented excuses to get out of the house, while he to remain in it. I remember our last kiss as brisk, casual, broken off early in favor of some frivolous thing that laid claim to our attentions. It was years until our lips met again.

Holmes has said it was an excellent, if tragic, bit of prognostication on his brother’s part. Myself, I maintain that if Mycroft had not planted the seed in Sherlock’s mind, our lives may have taken a very different shape. Ultimately, though, we shall never know what might have been in this case as in all things. I do not regret my marriage, for Mary and I brought each other great joy while she lived, though I regret the hurt it caused Holmes, as I know he regrets the grief he caused me. We have learned in time to forgive each other the trespasses and cruelties of youth and of folly.

Whatever path has led me here, I am grateful for the shape my life has taken; I write this from the sunroom of the home we have made for ourselves. Through the window, I can see how tall and splendid the lilacs have grown this spring. Holmes has been traipsing through the meadow all day, and now, I hear him bashing about in the kitchen. Probably trying to solve the mystery of the missing kettle. Now, he calls my name and I must leave these pages. Let me think no more of the unhappy past—or, if I must, only to remind myself to enjoy the spoils and smiles of today. It is still true that the hard-earned ones are the most rewarding.


End file.
